Harry Potter and the Horrid Pain of the Artiste
by Bressingham
Summary: It's the seventh year. Lord Voldemort was killed in Book 6, so the only thing our plucky characters can do to occupy their time is get into romantic entanglements. (written as Mary Sue Whipple)
1. In which we introduce our characters and...

----  
  
Title: _Harry Potter and the Horrid Pain of the Artiste_  
Author: Mary Sue Whipple  
Rating: PG-13  
Alternative source: http://www.geocities.com/school_idiot/hp.htm  
  
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe and all characters within that  
universe belong to J.K. Rowling, and no infringement on my part was  
intended. The original text is copyright 2001.  
  
Notes: Slash, but nothing explicit. And this is Yenta Sue. I apologize ahead of time.  
  
----  
  
  
  
It was the talk of all the Seventh Years: Defense Against the  
Dark Arts had been dropped entirely (no one saw the point  
anymore, especially after all the adventure, excitement, and  
incredible plot twists of the previous year), and in its place  
was a class Dumbledore thought would "prepare the children  
for life in the Muggle world, should events conspire against  
them, and the movie stink worse than a mermaid market at  
high noon."  
  
Being a wizard, however, did not give Dumbledore quite the  
Muggle point of view when it came to success in the modern  
world: He instituted a creative writing class.  
  
"I've seen a motion picture once or twice," he'd said  
soothingly to Professor McGonagall, who was rather  
suspiciously against the entire venture; "I've seen what kind  
of treatment authors are given: heaps of Muggle money,  
hardcovers on all their sales, well-publicized/attended book  
signings, and a large villa with a pool, a maid, and several  
palm trees."  
  
He'd smiled innocently. "How far could that deviate from the  
truth?"  
  
So the Seventh Years discovered that instead of buying  
textbooks with strange reddish ink and an unmistakable garlic  
smell, they were buying all sorts of Muggle texts like: "How I  
Became a Writer", "Writing in Twelve Easy Steps", and "The  
Sobering Saga of Myrtle the Manuscript". (No one could  
find that last one, which was just as well. It destroyed  
illusions faster than a Patronus, only with a great deal less  
flash.)  
  
While all this was going on, no one knew that Neville  
Longbottom was now related to a Fifth Year. In a prequel yet  
to be written, a perky young scamp had been found  
wandering the streets of London with no memory and very  
little clothing (she claimed the lipstick and extreme  
eyeshadow were remnants of a life she couldn't, just  
_couldn't_, remember, drat the bad luck) -- she'd then been  
adopted by Neville's grandmother for reasons that eluded  
_him_, not to mention the entirety of the wizarding  
community (with the wild exception of Severus Snape, oddly  
enough; but that's prequel territory again).  
  
And so it was that on the Hogwarts Express Harry, Ron, and  
Hermione were introduced by Neville Longbottom to his new  
kid sister, Mary Sue Cutebottom. Draco Malfoy happened to  
be walking past just as Mary Sue was hugging everyone, and  
so was embraced as warmly as all the protagonists, which  
suggests something about this story. (Malfoy, reading these  
words, glanced about the page nervously and left before Ron  
said something rude.)  
  
Little did anyone know that a vicious -- yet at the same time  
rewarding and at times adorable -- love hexagon had begun,  
only to be resolved through several revisions and at least two  
sequels.  
  
----  
  
"I just don't see how it is that The Art and The Artiste will  
help us 'adjust' to the Muggle world," Hermione muttered to  
Harry and Mary Sue, just before the bell rang. It was the first  
day of school, and Seventh Year Gryffindor and Slytherin had  
morning class together. Neither group had been quite  
prepared for what awaited them.   
  
Hermione's face wore a worried frown. "I mean, my family's  
_all_ Muggles, and I don't remember _anything_ like this."   
  
  
The Art and The Artiste was being held in the same room  
Defense of the Dark Arts had been, but it didn't look nearly as  
well-kept as it had before. Strange piles of paper huddled in  
the corners; ripped posters and faded newspaper articles hung  
slantwise on the walls; lamps with their shades missing lit the  
room with shadows and weak yellow light; books with their  
covers missing and their pages dog-eared were stacked on  
broken bookcases; half empty inkpots littered desktops;  
hundreds of Muggle pens overflowed dirty mugs, all of  
which left brown ring stains on whatever they were standing  
on. And every inch of available space was covered with little  
black stickers, shaped like beer bottles.  
  
Harry poked at one of the stickers with his wand. He heard a  
fizzling noise, and suddenly he couldn't help but say, "I know  
I should be working on my latest but, hon-hon-_honestly_,  
how can I work under these conditions, I ask you? Eh? Eh?   
What with that bloody git making at least 2000 pounds more  
than me with _every single sale_, and you know he couldn't  
put together a complete sentence if his gods-be-damned  
_typewriter_ gave him grammar lessons--"  
  
Harry stopped abruptly, as the strange effect of the bottle  
stickers wore off. He looked around; he hadn't been the only  
one to test out the stickers. Ron was merely mumbling  
incoherently between hiccups, but Draco Malfoy, across the  
room, was raging quite loudly about critics and their inability  
to "find a well-planted plot device if given a torch and a  
bloody tourist map." Considering the looks people were  
giving Malfoy, Harry felt quite better about his own outburst.  
  
"Well," a scratchy voice called out, "I see you've found the  
Inspirations."  
  
Everyone turned to look at the speaker. In the front of the  
room, beside one of the larger patches of bottle stickers, they  
saw a short woman with brightly dyed hair and a cigarette in  
her hand, smoothing her robes and smiling at the few  
students still Inspired by a sticker ("--royalties! I'm telling  
you, they're cheating me out of my royalties, the packager  
scum!--").  
  
"My name's Professor Susan Jimison," the woman said in a  
pronounced American accent, "and here's a hint for the  
future, kiddos: Wait until the Inspirations flash before you  
poke your wands at them -- you'll get more done that way."  
Professor Jimison smiled again, took a drag on her cigarette,  
then wandered toward the closest pile of papers and pulled  
off the top sheet.  
  
No one spoke for some minutes. Finally Hermione raised her  
hand, and said, "Professor, I'm sorry. I can't seem to find any  
flashing bottl-- Inspirations."  
  
Jimison snorted, muttered "Trash," and crumpled the sheet  
she'd been reading. She looked up at Hermione. "Of course  
they aren't flashing. It's neither 3 a.m. nor a week before your  
deadline. Those are the only times they flash spontaneously."  
Jimison stalked past the pile of papers and toward a  
bookcase. She snapped her fingers, and dozens of small blue  
notebooks appeared on a shelf, displacing the books that had  
been there before. A second snap, and the notebooks flew to  
the students' desks. "Everyone, I want you put your name on  
the cover and then write, ah, two haikus and a three page  
essay about your summer holiday. Due tomorrow."  
  
Immediately, Inspirations began flashing, almost too quickly  
to tap. After Harry had written his name on the notebook, he  
opened the cover to the first blank page. He put quill to  
paper... and realized he didn't know what a haiku was. He  
raised his hand. "Professor Jimison...?"  
  
She ignored him in favor of pawing through a collection of  
literary review magazines.  
  
Mary Sue Cutebottom leaned over to him. "Harry, tap the  
flashing Inspirations! They'll help! Look!" She held up her  
notebook, showing him an essay labeled, "Cutebottom's  
Summer Holiday: Prequel Material".  
  
Harry nodded and looked around his desk for an Inspiration  
to tap. He missed twice, and ended up yelling epithets about  
ineffective agents for nearly half an hour. Finally he nicked a  
flashing sticker, and while the fizzling noise was louder, his  
mind was suddenly filled with word choices and plots and  
other marvelous things, most of which were completely  
useless for his current purposes. Still, he wrote down what  
he could, and discovered that haikus were particularly daft  
sounding poems, and that his summer holiday consisted  
mostly of sexual yearnings.  
  
He didn't like how his essay turned out. It didn't at all sound  
like how _he_ remembered his summer holiday, and it  
certainly didn't sound like something that should be turned in  
to Professor Jimison.  
  
Ron nudged him. "What's your essay about, Harry? Mine  
kept going on about inferiority complexes and other rubbish,  
in between some good stuff about Quidditch. What about  
you?"  
  
Harry looked at his third paragraph. *It wasn't until this  
summer that I truly noticed how my feeling were affecting  
my judgement. My cousin Dudley's weight problems had  
always disturbed me, but his blond hair now reminded me of  
the one that I wish I... I wish I could touch, could run my  
fingertips through his hair, hair so bright it'd burn... and so it  
was that I found myself sharing some Chocolate Frogs with  
Dudley. And I still don't feel sorry for doing so, even if he  
did try to beat me up for the rest of them.*  
  
Harry swallowed. "Quidditch. Mine's about Quidditch too."  
  
"Oh," said Ron. He shrugged. "Maybe Hermione's got  
something embarrassing. Hermione! Write anything weird?"  
  
While Ron and Hermione argued about what constituted  
strange or not, Harry thought about his essay, and how he just  
couldn't allow anyone else to read it...   
  
"Harry?" Mary Sue whispered.  
  
He jumped, then tried breathing steadily. "What, Mary?" he  
whispered back, hoping she wasn't going to ask him about his  
essay.  
  
"Harry, are you all right? You're breathing funny."  
  
"Noth-Nothing, Mary. I'm just... nervous about my essay."  
He hadn't meant to say so, but Neville's little sister just  
seemed to project an air of attentiveness and trust. He didn't  
think that anything he told her would be passed on to anyone  
else, but he also thought that any advice she gave him would  
be well-worth his following. Protective, yet mischievous.   
Adorable, yet wise beyond her years. Underage, yet  
disturbingly perky.  
  
It was quite an amazing air she had.  
  
"Harry, you shouldn't feel pressured to talk about a subject  
that makes you feel uncomfortable," Mary Sue said quietly,  
for once a smile not on her lips. "If you--"  
  
"Mary," Harry said abruptly. He looked nervously at the  
floor. "I don't suppose you'd, y'know, read my essay before I  
hand it in, maybe help me rewrite it if it doesn't... sound...  
right?"  
  
"Of course, Harry," Mary Sue said, just as the bell rang for  
lunch. "Anything I can do to help."  
  
Harry smiled in relief. "Thanks, Mary," he said. "Good thing  
Dumbledore let you join this Seventh Year class; I don't  
know what I'd do without you."  
  
Mary Sue Cutebottom giggled appreciatively.  
  
---  
  
After lunch, Mary Sue was making her way to McGonagall's  
Fifth Year Transfigurations when a hand roughly pulled her  
into a sheltered alcove. Expecting one of her friends from  
Gryffindor, or one of her _other_ friends from behind the pub  
in Hogsmeade, she let herself be pulled, but the person  
dragging her out of sight wasn't Ron or Hermione, and it  
certainly wasn't Big Eddie or Hairy Vincenzo the Tireless  
Vicar.  
  
It was Draco Malfoy.  
  
"Oh, hallo Draco," she said cheerfully, remembering how  
well Malfoy had hugged on the train ride to Hogwarts. "Can  
I help you?"  
  
Malfoy pressed her hard against the alcove's stone wall. If it  
wasn't for Mary Sue's inexplicable enjoyment of tall, rude,  
dangerous young men with posh accents, she'd be worried.   
When he spoke, his voice was low and harsh. (As menacing  
as it was, Mary Sue rather liked being threatened -- it gave  
her fond memories of the prequel.)  
  
"Listen, Mudblood," he said, "I don't like you. I don't like  
being cheerfully halloed by you. And I don't like that air of  
attentiveness and trust you project, all right?"  
  
Mary Sue's forehead crinkled in thought. "Then why'd you  
drag me over here, Draco? I'm going to be late in a moment."  
Understanding suddenly flooded in. She looked him in the  
eye. "Is there something you... want to talk about?"  
  
Malfoy let go of her arm and turned to lean against the wall  
beside her. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Why me," he  
muttered. "Why now?" He glanced toward Mary Sue. "I  
don't know why I stopped you, Mudblood. Except that I  
think you could help me."  
  
"If it means hurting any of my friends, Draco, you know I  
can't do that."  
  
"Ha. And your friends are, let me think... most of my arch  
enemies here at Hogwarts. How utterly convenient.   
Weasley, Granger, Potter... ha. Potter _most_ of all... "  
  
Mary Sue looked puzzled again. "Why do you keep _saying_  
'ha' instead of, you know, actually laughing?"  
  
"Literary device. And this author's writing style, which tends  
to explain a great deal."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Like I was saying, though, I think I... need... your help."  
Malfoy began rubbing his eyes again. "Gods, that's  
embarrassing to say. I'm never working with this author  
again."  
  
"Draco," Mary Sue said carefully, "this wouldn't have  
anything to do with our writing assignments, would it? Your  
essay... ?"  
  
"Not the essay, Mudblood," Malfoy said wearily. "The  
haikus. Bloody things. I wrote about twenty of them, and all  
on topics that... " He leaned his head back and stared up at the  
ceiling. "... that I'd rather die than discuss right now, thank  
you."  
  
"All right, Draco," Mary Sue said, "I'll help you. I'm going to  
be meeting with Harry sometime after dinner, but I'll come by  
the Slytherin dungeon afterwards, all right? Fortunately,  
Professor Dumbledore told me the passwords to all the house  
doors -- this air of attentiveness and trust of mine is damned  
convenient at times, let me tell you."  
  
"So I imagine," said Malfoy. The bell rang. "Don't tell  
_anyone_ about our conversation, Mudblood." He slipped out  
of the alcove, and began running towards Professor Flitwick's  
classroom, probably for Seventh Year Charms. Mary Sue  
caught a glimpse of fine silver-blond hair and rather shapely  
legs before he was out of sight.  
  
"This is getting interesting," Mary Sue murmured, leaving the  
alcove for her own class. She waved her wand in  
anticipation, and smiled when a heart shaped cloud appeared  
briefly in the hallway.  
  
"_Very_ interesting."  
  
----  
  
(cont. in 2/7) 


	2. In which we discover the particulars of ...

  
----  
  
Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat together at the Gryffindor table for dinner, just like they had for the last seven years -- with, of course, the fabulous exception of three very tense and character-driven weeks the previous year, which, fortunately, were resolved with very few tears and only one maiming. Joining them now, and probably for the rest of term, were Neville and Mary Sue.   
  
Mary Sue and Hermione had become fast friends once they discovered their similar measurements could lead to a doubling of their respective wardrobes -- Neville had been given strict instructions by his grandmother to keep a close eye on Mary Sue. ("Whither thou goest," Neville was fond of saying now; he thought the author might appreciate a reference to actual literature in the midst of this glorified PWP.) In any case, he didn't do much in this scene -- no one did, really, except Hermione and Ron. They talked about a sensitive topic; Mary Sue's high-pitched giggles masked their conversation from everyone present.  
  
Except the author, of course.  
  
"Have you noticed anything, I dunno, _strange_ about Harry lately?" Ron whispered, unaware of the author's newfound interest in Hogwarts table-talk.  
  
"What do you mean? Strange how?"  
  
"I can't really say. There's like, like this _air_ about 'im."  
  
"You mean like Mary Sue's air? Attentiveness, trust, that sort of thing?"  
  
"No, no -- like the author's planning to embarrass him horribly later in this fic."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yeah -- leaves a mark on you, it does. Happens to me all the time, but I haven't seen it on Harry in _ages_."  
  
"Gosh," Hermione said, and looked over at Harry. Harry was busy adding butter to his mashed potatoes, trying to achieve a silver-blond look. It wasn't working. "Now that you mention it, he does look like he's in for a rough time."  
  
"It's like he's already got a cream pie smashed in his face," Ron said glumly, remembering certain events from the last book.  
  
"Poor Harry." Hermione didn't like it when her friends were treated badly by the author just to create an interesting story; it reminded her that she could be next. In a sequel, for instance.  
  
"Listen, Hermione, we've got to be there for him, all right? Whatever happens, he's our friend, and the author isn't. I mean, look what she's done already in this piece."  
  
Hermione shivered. "You're right. Pact on it?"  
  
Ron and Hermione clasped hands, while the author looked on in interest. "Pact," Ron said. "No matter what, we'll stick by Harry."  
  
"Pact," Hermione agreed.  
  
The author was delighted to see how long it took for them to separate their fingers. Sequel material, indeed.  
  
---  
  
Neville Longbottom sat in the Gryffindor common room after dinner, feeling depressed. This morning's writing class had been a flop, as far as he was concerned; Inspirations just didn't work with him. His essay was as dull as ditches, and his haikus just talked about rabbits and ineffability. Nothing _interesting_.  
  
And then there was his new "sister". Everyone seemed to like her. Hell, _he_ liked her, but not like everyone else. "She has an... _air_," they all said; why couldn't he feel it? It just wasn't fair.  
  
He looked up. Standing in the doorway was Mary Sue Cutebottom herself, staring at him. She turned her head, a blush sweeping up her cheeks, as if Neville had caught her doing something naughty. Doubt it was anything that bad, Neville thought gloomily; she was probably thinking about what a badly-written oaf I am.  
  
"Hallo, Neville," Mary Sue said hesitantly.   
  
"Hello, Mary," he said. "Enjoying yourself at Hogwarts?"  
  
"Oh. Oh, yes. It's quite wonderful. As, as I guess you'd know, right?" the girl said, mumbling the last few words. It was painfully obvious, at this point; compared to everyone else here, Neville was a complete git. She was regretting being related to him. He was only embarrassing her now by making her talk to him.  
  
"Well," said Neville, "I think I'll leave now."  
  
Mary Sue blinked rapidly. "Of, of course, Neville. I'll see you tomorrow, all right?"  
  
"Tomorrow. Right." He got out of his chair, smiled cheerfully without really feeling it, and left.  
  
---  
  
Harry found Mary Sue in the common room, staring into the fire and sighing. "Mary, you all right?" he said, wondering if maybe he should get Hermione or some other female to do the girls-crying-emotions-bonding thing. He wasn't very good at dealing with sighing women.  
  
Mary Sue looked up at him and smiled softly. "Nothing, Harry. Just thinking about the prequel. Now," she said, straightening her spine and beckoning him to a nearby chair, "let's have a look at that essay of yours."  
  
Harry handed over the notebook, and pretended to be incredibly interested in the carpet for the several minutes that Mary Sue took to read his essay.  
  
"Hmm... " she said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Oh, nothing. The author's trying to think of something Freudian for me to quote, and needs to kill some time."  
  
"This author's got funny ideas about--"  
  
"I've got it!" Mary Sue quickly leaned over and said, "Harry, tell me: Do you have... _feelings_... for Draco Malfoy?"  
  
"_What_?" Harry would have sputtered if he'd been drinking something, another oversight by the author. What ever happened to evening cups of hot chocolate? "That's _rubbish_! I hate him -- I've hated him ever since we were First Years together! He's a Slytherin, he's a rival Quidditch player, he hates Muggle-born, his father was a _Death Eater_ and before I killed Voldemort it looked like he was going to join the Dark Force the _second_ he graduated--"  
  
" 'I would often think about my broomstick during the summer months -- the cool, firm wood that would warm as I flew it through the air,' " Mary Sue began reciting, " 'I'd think about who I'd like to fly with, the way his hands would caress my broomstick, sending me higher and higher until I met the sun and then, oh God, and then we'd fall together. We'd wave our wands before we hit, and the hard ground would become softer than gosling down. The landing would be made all the better by his hair brushing my cheek while we both lay gasping, and his eyes would promise devotion ever more. No more Dark Force for him, no sir.' "  
  
Harry looked shocked. "It's a _metaphor_, that's all, I just want to win the Quidditch cup again--"  
  
"Harry," Mary Sue said sternly, "Harry, it's no good. Don't deny your feelings! I want you to think about this, all right? How bad could Draco possibly be?"  
  
"_How bad_?" Harry said with disbelief. "How bloody bad could he be? Should I start listing the myriad of choices _now_--?"  
  
"You needn't bother, Harry, you already did a few paragraphs ago," Mary Sue said. "I want you to think about how much truth is in that list. I think you'll be surprised."  
  
She got up and handed Harry his notebook. "As for the essay... I think it's important that you leave it the way it is. Professor Jimison is American -- I doubt she'll be shocked or anything. And as for everyone else... " She shrugged. "This is the British boarding school system; who'd be surprised?"  
  
Mary Sue smiled again, and left the common room.  
  
Harry looked at his essay. "Gosling down... " he mumbled. "_Hell_."  
  
---  
  
" 'His skin is of silk,' " Mary Sue recited to a gaping Malfoy, mimicking the previous scene with almost disturbing accuracy. " 'His eyes like emerald chips / His mouth sweet and warm.' "  
  
"I _do not_ have 'feelings' for Potter!"  
  
"Is that so? Let me see... 'Evil? Nonsense! No! / Betray him now, with my love? / Rather die smelly.'"  
  
"That has nothing _whatsoever_ to do with Potter. It's probably a reflection of my childhood."  
  
"'Harry Potter, sweet / angel of divine lusting / Can't I admit love?'" Mary Sue read triumphantly. "And while I'm at it, 'Hot sex on field with'--"  
  
"All right, all _right_!" Malfoy ran his hand through his hair; Mary Sue delighted to see that it was trembling. "Just what am I supposed to do about this, Mudbl--" He saw her lift his haikus threateningly. "--ah, Mary? I'm his enemy. Always have been. I mean, granted, I'm too nasty to exist very long in the canon without changing for the better, but this isn't canon is it?" Malfoy stood and began pacing around Mary Sue's chair. "No redemption for me," he muttered, "oh no, we have to keep our antagonists, we'd be stuck with only Snape and Voldemort if _you_ turned good... "  
  
"Ah, Draco?"  
  
"...damned prepubescent fanwriters... "  
  
"Draco?"  
  
"...no sense of character flaw resolution..."  
  
"Draco!"  
  
"...don't bloody drool in my sleep, nearly cut my throat after I read that fanfic..."  
  
Mary Sue stood up and glared at Malfoy. "'Hot sex on field with / famous, too kissable scar'--!" she hissed angrily.  
  
He stopped, and looked nervously about the room. "Here, now, let's not get drastic..."  
  
"Listen to me, Draco, because otherwise I'll read every damn haiku you've got out loud. Now, you may think it's unlikely, and you may think it's embarrassing, and you may think it'll never happen in canon, but that's not the point! You love Harry!"  
  
Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh gods."  
  
"And you have to come clean with it, Draco! Face your emotions!" Mary Sue took a deep breath. "You may be pleasantly surprised if you do."  
  
He looked at her sharply. "What was that?"  
  
Mary Sue gave him back his notebook. "I think the professor will understand if you don't have an essay. You've got plenty of poems; it's an even trade. Just think about what you've written, all right? I just want you to be happy."  
  
She smiled, and left the Slytherin common room. Once she was sure she was out of earshot, she murmured, "_Both_ of you."  
  
----  
  
(cont. in 3/7) 


	3. In which there is the required 'accident...

  
----  
  
It was the next morning, and another The Art and the Artiste  
class with Professor Jimison. This time, when everyone'd  
entered the class, Jimison was setting fire to the newspaper  
clipping on the walls, muttering about philistines and  
professional jealousy the entire while. She stopped once  
everyone was seated, though she used the last flame (the only  
words left visible were "A ridiculous interpretation of the  
post-modern gender issue--") to light a new cigarette.  
  
"First of all, tomorrow's assignment is another essay. Use  
what Inspiration you had yesterday to write tonight's, and be  
prepared for some sort of open mike session with it. Next, I  
want everyone to lay their notebooks on their desks, please."  
The class did so, though some, like our dear protagonists, did  
so reluctantly. Jimison nodded, and pulled out her wand.   
"Now, I want you all to duck."  
  
The books jumped into the air, swooping at lethal speeds  
toward Professor Jimison's head, neither noticing nor caring  
whether a student was in their paths. As soon as a notebook  
came within a meter of Jimison she'd fire several little arrows  
of smoke, always striking the book dead center; the notebook  
would then wobble back to its owner, weeping piteously.  
  
Harry was boggled. "What _is_ this?"  
  
Ron was staring at his notebook, which had just flopped  
dejectedly back onto his desk. He opened its front cover, and  
bit back an exclamation inappropriate for younger readers.  
  
Hermione was looking at her notebook too, looking faintly  
sick. "It's the grading process."  
  
Harry's book was flopping weakly about his ankles. He  
picked it up, and tried to dislodge the arrows sticking out of  
the cover. Every time he tried, though, his fingers went right  
through them. So, ignoring his notebook's moans and  
hacking cough, he opened the front cover.  
  
"Gosh," he said a moment later. There was really nothing  
else he could say.  
  
His essay and two haikus (both of which talked about what a  
marvelous color silver-blond was) had been covered in  
commentary, all written with bright red ink. Some of the  
reader remarks were quite large, and easy to read ("You can  
skip to something interesting any time now"), while others  
were long and written very small, cramped between sentences  
and curving around the edges of paragraphs ("Your puerile  
attempts at masked sexual division make me retch, while  
your rather boring fantasy scenarios make it seem like you're  
looking for a grade rather than a successful seduction of  
Other -- which, coincidentally, is likewise a very poorly  
disguised view of Self").  
  
With a brief look around the class, Harry knew he wasn't the  
only one who'd gotten unintelligible, but clearly negative,  
commentary. Hermione was past looking sick, and was  
working on outrage. "Will you look at this grade? She gave  
me less than half marks!"  
  
"Join the rest of us, eh?" said Ron mournfully. "Mum's going  
to kill me."  
  
"How the hell do we get rid of these arrows?" Harry asked.   
Half marks were bad enough -- his notebook was squeaking a  
funeral dirge.  
  
"Those, kiddos, you can never get rid of." Professor Jimison  
grinned at the unhappy faces surrounding her. She pointed  
toward the Inspirations. "Ever wonder what these things are  
for if you _don't_ want to write something?"  
  
Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to try it  
first. Harry looked around, then shrugged. He pulled out his  
wand and tapped a black sticker.  
  
He heard the fizzling noise, like the day before, and then he  
blurted out: "Half marks? _Half marks_? Bloody _genius_,  
that's what I give her, and what do I get in return, lads? _Half  
marks_! Soul on the page, and the bitch rips into it, like, like,  
like -- Jealousy! _That's_ it! She can't handle what the up-  
and-comers are producing, wants to push us down, beat the  
bloody _originality_ out of us, wants to make us all status  
quo, what the _publishers_ want, what they can sell, not what  
the readers _need_ to read! Not what they really _want_, oh  
no, then those publishing _dictators_ wouldn't, wouldn't,  
wouldn't... Wouldn't that bitch like to have _half_ my talent,  
eh, lads! Here, I'll sell something soon -- the next round's on  
me!"  
  
---  
  
After lunch, the Gryffindor Seventh Years were making their  
way to Divinations. Harry was letting himself be pulled  
along by his friends while he thought about what he was  
going to write about for tomorrow's The Art and The Artiste  
class. Suddenly, a young and perky figure threw herself in  
his direction.  
  
"Oh, drat!" Mary Sue Cutebottom cried. "Would you just  
look at that?! I'm sorry for running into you, Harry, but  
you're just what I need. I seem to have dropped my quill  
somewhere; will you help me look for it?"  
  
"Well," said Harry, trying to disentangle himself from her  
grip, "d'you remember the last place you saw it?"  
  
"Let me think, let me think... " Mary Sue was darting glances  
about the hallway; she's probably trying to find her quill  
without my help, thought Harry. Her eyes widened, and for a  
moment it looked like she grinned with triumph. Then she  
said in worried tones, "I remember now -- I was writing down  
my assignments in Charms. Or... was I printing my name on  
the study group list _outside_ of Charms?" She grabbed his  
arm and started tugging him toward Professor Flitwick's  
classroom. "Come on, Harry, let's look."  
  
"But-- I've got class-- "  
  
"Oh, bother, Harry. There's at least five minutes before  
classes begin. Besides, you've never liked Divinations -- just  
tell Trelawney you had a vision of the future. Mention lots of  
blood." She had him by Flitwick's door, now. "Drat the bad  
luck, Harry. It must be inside. Could you look?"  
  
"But you haven't even looked here!"  
  
"Oh. Right." Mary Sue stared at the floor for a moment, then  
said, "Well, so much for that. Go on, Harry, look inside for  
me?"  
  
"Now, just a moment, Mary-- "  
  
Mary Sue looked at him, and he was embarrassed to see tears  
in her eyes. "Oh Harry," she sniffed, "please? It's, it's, it's the  
quill I had during the perilous conclusion to the prequel, you  
know, the one that saved my life and the life of-- "  
  
"I remember, Mary," Harry said. He sighed, and straightened  
his glasses. "Where's your desk?"  
  
"Um... " She looked into the classroom. "Third from the  
back, on the far left."  
  
"Alright, then. Back in a mo'."  
  
Harry entered Flitwick's classroom and started heading  
toward the back, looking around the path Mary Sue had  
probably taken when she'd left her Fifth Year Charms. He  
could tell people were looking at him, but he couldn't take the  
time to chat -- much as he owed Mary Sue, he did _not_ want  
to make up ghastly predictions of his own demise. He'd had  
to do it twice yesterday.  
  
He was in the back of the classroom, now; he turned and  
made his way over to the left-hand side. It was startling how  
many things students had left behind over the course of the  
day -- an inkpot, a bit of owl feed, a glitter-encrusted sneaker-  
-  
  
Ah, third desk from the back, Harry thought. Still no quill,  
though--  
  
" 'Scuse me, you haven't seen a bright purple quill, have you?   
Belongs to a Fifth Year, should say 'MSC' on it?" said Harry,  
searching the ground around the shoes of the desk's occupant.  
  
"Potter... " a low voice drawled out. Harry looked up and  
saw, for the first time, who precisely was sitting at the desk.  
  
Draco Malfoy said, "Potter, just what are you doing?"  
  
Oh dear, thought Harry.  
  
"Looking for a quill, Malfoy. Mary Sue Cutebottom's  
actually. Seen it?" Harry's brain fought a valiant battle  
against Harry's eyes, which kept trying to stare at Malfoy's  
lips and long, pulled-back hair. Harry's brain was losing.  
  
"Now why would I have a Mudblood's quill, Potter? Gone a  
bit daft in your old age?" Malfoy's eyes kept flicking back  
and forth between Harry's eyes and his forehead. Probably  
getting the closest look he's ever gotten of my scar, thought  
Harry. I haven't stood this close to him since we were First  
Years.  
  
I'm standing very close indeed.  
  
Harry didn't feel like stepping back. Instead, he slowing  
crouched beside the desk, until he was at Malfoy's eye-level.   
"Fine," Harry said quietly, "you haven't seen the quill.   
Should I ask what you _are_ seeing?"  
  
"Me?" Malfoy said, just as quietly. "Nothing, Potter. Ever  
since the exciting adventures of last year, it must seem  
strange for you to have absolutely no one to battle -- no evil  
to defeat, no puppies to save... you've run the course of your  
destiny, Potter, and what have you to look forward to now?   
_Nothing_."  
  
Harry stared into Malfoy's eyes -- grey, a stormy grey. "What  
of you, Malfoy? Voldemort's gone. Your parents emigrated  
to Rio and left you to the mercies of the wizarding world. If  
it weren't for me and my 'destiny', you'd be trying to survive  
with the Muggles and their version of justice." Storm grey,  
with a hint of lightning. "If I've got nothing, then what  
exactly have you got?"  
  
Malfoy smiled. When Harry saw it, something inside him  
hurt. Not like the way Voldemort had ever hurt him... in a  
different way. A more important way.  
  
"Potter... "  
  
"Harry. My name's Harry, you bastard. I'm tired of this  
bloody distant attitude of yours, and I've been tired of it for  
the last seven years. Call me by _name_, not by legacy."  
  
Malfoy watched him for a moment, something indefinable  
behind those cool grey eyes. "I haven't been the only distant  
one," he murmured. "If you're Harry... then who does that  
make me?"  
  
The bell rang.  
  
"Oh, Harry!" called Mary Sue from the doorway. Harry  
flinched, his eyes breaking from Malfoy's to stare  
dumbfounded at the bouncing Fifth Year. "Look! I had my  
quill all along! Sorry for dragging you in here -- come on,  
you'll be late for Divinations!"  
  
Harry stood up slowly, and made his way to the doorway and  
out into the hall. He could feel Malfoy watching him as he  
left.  
  
_Hell_.  
  
  
---  
  
Harry thought about what happened all through the rest of  
classes. He'd never consciously thought of Malfoy in any  
sense other than 'rotten-to-the-core prat' -- but ever since he'd  
written that essay, he couldn't help but think over the past few  
years... there was the awareness of Malfoy's growth spurt  
some two years before, how large it'd turned Draco's hands.   
Malfoy's hair, which he'd let grow several inches past his  
shoulders, and the way he'd tie it back so it hung like a rope  
of silver. Those grey eyes, watching Harry... seeming all the  
more dark for appearing next to translucent skin and pale  
hair...  
  
Bloody, bloody hell. Why hadn't he ever _consciously_  
realized this stuff?  
  
"Because it's _Malfoy_, Harry. Why else?" Mary Sue  
plopped beside Harry in the near-empty Gryffindor common  
room. "And while I can see why that would be something of  
a hang-up, you must consider his good qualities."  
  
"I see the author's letting you be psychic now," Harry said  
quietly, as he began tugging on his chair's loose threads.  
  
"No, no -- I get to be empathetic, but not have direct mind  
reading abilities," Mary Sue said. "So tell me: Aside from  
the fact that it's the boy you've been quarreling with for the  
past seven years, why precisely do you have a problem being  
madly in love with him?"  
  
"I am _not_ madly in love with Malfoy."  
  
"All right, then: Why do you have a problem being madly in  
_lust_ with him?"  
  
"It's not that, either," Harry said, standing up. He began to  
pace, though not as wildly as Malfoy had three scenes ago.   
"It's... it's that I thought I was quite blatantly heterosexual.  
That whole business with Cho, for instance, and you in the  
prequel... and let's not forget fanfic's attempts at explaining  
my love life. Hermione this, and Lavender that, and a host of  
'original' characters... But now, suddenly, not only am I  
feeling _something_ for a man, but... but that man is  
_Malfoy_. I mean, why him? Couldn't I have fallen for Ron  
or something? A fellow Quidditch player? Someone who  
_isn't_ out to ruin my life? Someone who makes _sense_?"  
  
"Well..." Mary Sue looked faintly upset. "You have taken  
into account who's writing this story...?"  
  
Harry gestured vaguely. "Yes, yes. It doesn't make me feel  
any better about the situation."  
  
Mary Sue said nothing for some minutes, then reached out  
and stopped Harry. "Sit down for a moment, would you?"  
Harry sat on the ground beside her feet. "Look, it's like this:  
Draco's made about as many mistakes as a person can  
possibly make when it comes to human relationships. He's  
insulted your friends, openly despised the culture you grew  
up in, and nearly joined forces with a hideous evil that  
wanted you dead for nigh on seventeen years."  
  
She touched Harry's shoulder. "But has it occurred to you  
that maybe the only reason he's keeping up that charade is  
because you... _need_ it?"  
  
Harry blinked. "No, can't say that it has."  
  
"If Draco started acting nice and... affectionate, let's say, then  
what? What would you think?"  
  
The response came automatically. "That he was out trick me,  
and a murder attempt was imminent."  
  
"See? So if he acts just as he has for the last seven years -- a  
sarcastic, openly hostile bastard who only hates _Muggles_  
more than he hates you -- will you avoid him more, or will  
you keep at least the token distance granted him?"  
  
"I... " Harry stopped, and thought about what Mary Sue was  
saying. Finally he looked up. "I don't know," he said quietly.   
"How can I be sure? That I'm doing the right thing?"  
  
"Well, there's the easy way, and there's the hard way."  
  
"Um... not that I'm shirking my leading character, always-  
taking-the-rougher-road type responsibilities, but out of idle  
curiosity... what's the easy way?"  
  
"You find all the gimmicky magical objects that  
Dumbledore's 'accidentally' let you find over the years and  
mess about with them until you are granted knowledge of  
some sort. Or are turned into an orangutan."  
  
"Ah. And the hard way?"  
  
Mary Sue shrugged. "You have to realize that you can't be  
sure. The best you can do is speak the truth, and hope." She  
smiled. "Have fun with your writing assignment, Harry."  
  
And then she left Harry alone with his thoughts.  
  
----  
  
(cont. in 4/7)  
  
----  
  
  
Note: Humor isn't the solution. But it is _a_ solution. Luck   
and love, m'dears, and drinks are on me when the world stops  
burning. -Bressingham  



	4. In which Harry completes his writing ass...

----  
  
Some time ago Harry had refound the Mirror of Desir-- ah,  
Erised. The first time Harry had looked in the Mirror of  
Erised, he'd become nearly obsessed with the images of his  
family he'd seen there. But, thanks to those surprising few  
chapters in the previous book, Harry felt a sense of...  
completion, joy... and a sincere wish to never see his family  
ever, ever again.  
  
To ease the writing of the story, and because his bed hadn't  
had a headboard (a stylish touch, the lacking of which Harry  
thought to be extremely gauche), Harry had propped the  
mirror against the wall behind his bed; well-covered, of  
course. There had been very little comment on it, except for  
some puzzled glances from Ron, and a poke or two (swiftly  
halted) from Neville. Now, though, for the first time in  
months, Harry had a reason to look into the mirror.  
  
He waited until the other boys were asleep. He was cutting it  
close; he'd only have a few hours to write his assignment for  
the next day, and that was only after doing a very poor job on  
the rest of his work. That was all right, though -- he'd be able  
to finish the rest properly during Divinations, and claim he  
was writing out a new version of his will.  
  
It was past midnight, now. Four snores, of varying  
symphonic quality, surrounded Harry. He pulled the drape  
from the mirror.  
  
Though only half the Mirror of Erised was visible -- the other  
half having been wedged into place between his bed and the  
wall -- Harry could still see himself completely. Kneeling in  
front of it, he could see clearly his almost-too-long black hair  
(had Harry any experience with Japanese animation, he  
would no doubt be extremely disturbed to discover how  
closely his hair style resembled that of an anime character's),  
bright green eyes, glasses of a spectacularly ugly design, and  
the small lightning bolt scar on his forehead that had so  
enchanted Malfoy.  
  
_Malfoy_.  
  
At the thought, the mirror's image wavered. The Mirror of  
Erised showed what a person most wanted. And what the  
mirror showed Harry was a picture of Malfoy, sitting on his  
bed, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the  
ankle, a pile of papers surrounding him and a quill in hand.   
Malfoy muttered something, crumpled up the sheet he'd been  
working on, and tossed it aside. The image ran his hand  
through his unbound hair, muttered again, and set his quill to  
paper. Suddenly, the audio on the mirror picked up.  
  
"Hot sex on field with / famous, too kissable..." Malfoy said.   
The mirror-Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose. "There  
has got to be _some_ other thing I can pass in tomorrow.   
And lord only knows what the 'open mike' session will  
entail."  
  
Malfoy sighed, sneered, grimaced, and settled for looking  
faintly troubled. "One thing for it," he said. The image got  
off the bed, and left the picture.  
  
The reflection in the mirror wavered, then resettled in a  
different location -- the Art and the Artiste classroom.   
Malfoy stealthily entered, wand in one hand and paper and  
quill in the other. He looked around after he closed the door,  
and the mirror-Malfoy's face took on that most naked of  
expressions -- surprise.  
  
Ye gods and small fishes, thought Harry, what an awful  
description. But the mirror's picture suddenly pulled back,  
and Harry forgave the author any and all prose decisions up  
to this point because, standing near the opposite wall of the  
classroom, staring directly at Malfoy, was Harry himself.  
  
Gosh, thought Harry, this looks like the beginning of a spicy  
porn scenario. The author had no comment. A second later  
the mirror clouded, and when the picture cleared--  
  
Harry swallowed.  
  
"Right. Erised. _Not_ going to be the answer." He watched,  
mesmerized, as the mirror-Malfoy began doing something  
rather ingenious to the mirror-Harry's... etcetera. "Then  
again, who needs answers..."  
  
The mirror did a tasteful fade to black, but not before  
_someone_ had brought out a tube of Bertie Bott's Every  
Flavor Lube, a novelty item that Harry had only ever seen out  
of the corner of his eye in the 'Unusual Tastes' portion of the  
Hogsmeade sweet shop. This tube, if the color was to be  
believed, seemed to be cherrywood flavored.  
  
"Oy! Author!" cried out both of the mirror images. "That  
was _completely_ unnecessary!"  
  
The mirror-Harry muttered, "Besides, it's clearly orange  
sorbet."  
  
And the mirror blacked out.  
  
Harry sat staring. His eyes felt as if someone had double-  
glazed them during a moment of inattention. _This_ was  
what he desired?  
  
The Mirror of Erised. It couldn't read the future, it couldn't  
tell the truth, but _by God_, it gave good show.  
  
With much difficulty, Harry covered the mirror again and  
focused on Mary Sue's advice. What should he do?  
  
Well, the mirror-Harry had been in the Art and the Artiste  
classroom. The question that begged was, why? Perhaps I  
should look in the mirror again, Harry thought, you know,  
just to, um, find out, what... how...  
  
He sighed. No. That would be playing entirely too much  
into the author's hands. If I were to go to the classroom right  
now, he thought, why would I do so?  
  
To touch a flashing Inspiration. To gain some much needed,  
well, inspiration. And considering Professor Jimison's  
instructions ("Use what Inspiration you had yesterday..."  
Harry remembered helpfully), to be a complete and utter  
bounder and cheat at my assignment.  
  
Just like the mirror-Malfoy had planned to do.  
  
"Right," said Harry. "Where'd I leave my wand?"  
  
--  
  
The classroom was glowing with the constant burn of the  
bottle stickers. Harry had never seen darkness look so bright.   
He silently congratulated the author for the apt, though a tad  
obvious, metaphor.  
  
He sat at his desk and flattened his Marauder's Map on the  
surface. No one was moving. No one had moved around at  
night since Voldemort's death in the previous book, and the  
surprising involvement of the caretaker, Argus Filch, and his  
cat, Mrs. Norris, both of whom were taking a well-deserved  
vacation in the Virgin Islands.  
  
"Don't know what I'd do if old Filch hadn't saved my life  
during the perilous conclusion to the previous book. He  
_was_ flash." Harry sighed. "Who knew pectoral muscles  
could be that multipurpose?"  
  
No, Harry wasn't looking for creepers about the school -- he  
was looking for Malfoy. And sadly, there were no little  
wandering Malfoy shapes to beguile Harry's eye.  
  
Harry put away the map and opened his notebook to a fresh  
page. "Right," he said. "Cheating. Can't be hard, can it?"  
  
He felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought, but despite that,  
he closed eyes, took a deep breath, and touched one of the  
glowing Inspirations.  
  
"Dear God!" he cried out, as his pen began to idly scribble on  
the page, "I'm a, I'm a, I'm a _hack_. Can't manage on my  
own, can't come up with a gram of, of _originality_,  
_creativity_, nothing, I'm nothing, why did they let me sign  
the contract? -- I can't write. No talent. That first one was a,  
was a _fluke_, and now they expect me to do it again! Damn  
the readers anyway, no taste, if they had taste, they wouldn't  
have bought my book, and those editors, daft, the lot of them,  
_they_ haven't any taste either, bloody publishers and their  
bloody sense of, of... _Literary hacks_, that's what they want,  
they, they _made_ me become one -- I could have been great,  
if they hadn't forced this upon me. O muse! I have no art,"  
Harry sobbed into one hand, "and I'm fooling _no one_."  
  
The fizzing noise in his ears receded, and the tears abruptly  
stopped. Crikey, thought Harry. Damned if _I'll_ ever  
become a writer, even if wizarding goes out of fashion.  
  
He stretched, and looked down at what his pen had written.   
Then he looked again. And then he started counting pages.   
And finally, he read the thing.  
  
"Bloody hell," whispered Harry, dropping the over-hopeful  
PG-13 rating off the Embankment for British readers. "I've  
written a mainstream novel."  
  
What's more, defying all logic, it was... it was a _good_  
mainstream novel. Love, loss, sex and violence, "a journey  
through adolescence", and more first person monologues of a  
highly personal and self-exploratory nature than you could  
shake a stick at.  
  
And its focus was Harry and Malfoy.  
  
Oh, granted, those weren't the characters' names. And  
perhaps the descriptions differed, and the setting somewhere  
unlikely. But even so... it was clearly Harry. And Malfoy.   
And the previously mentioned sex and violence.  
  
_Lots_ of sex and violence.  
  
Funny, thought Harry. Characters that are clearly based upon  
real people, including a character who is, in fact, myself. I  
wonder if there's a term for that in the literary field?  
  
"Mary Sue!" Harry said aloud suddenly. "She knew I'd do  
this! She knew I'd find the mirror, come here, and write --  
_this_! It must be all right then." Harry fondly smoothed the  
ink-heavy pages of his notebook. "I'll magic this up into  
proper manuscript format, one-inch margins, 12 point mono-  
spaced font, double spaced and all its pages numbered. I'll  
even put my name, address, email, fax and phone number on  
a cover page. I'll make this _perfect_ for tomorrow."  
  
An Inspiration paused its glow for a moment, dimming to  
black and then back to blazing glory. The interruption jogged  
something in Harry's head. "A title," he murmured. "I need a  
title for this."  
  
He worried the end of his quill with his fingers, and then, it  
came to him. In triumph, to be followed shortly by a scene  
break, he wrote in the upper margin of the first page of text:  
  
THE HORRID PAIN OF THE ARTISTE  
  
"Bloody original, that is," he said triumphantly. "This story'll  
be a _smash_ tomorrow. I can't wait."  
  
----  
  
(cont. in 5/7) 


	5. In which it all goes to hell rather spec...

----  
  
The next morning was bright, cheery, and extremely difficult  
for Harry -- between the indecision about his homework and  
the actual writing of same, he'd gotten almost no sleep. Still,  
he dragged himself out of bed and began dressing.  
  
"Harry," Ron said drowsily, "what the hell is that?"  
  
"That," Harry replied, "is my assignment for Professor  
Jimison."  
  
Ron sat at the end of Harry's bed and peered at the manuscript  
laying there. "Don't know if you noticed yet, Harry, but it's  
three inches thick."  
  
"Yeah. Wrote it last night."  
  
Ron yawned. "You'll have to get a new notebook, you  
know."  
  
Ron was used to this sort of thing. Neville came over and  
looked at the manuscript. "You," he said, looking at Harry  
questioningly, "wrote that?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Yep."  
  
"Last night?"  
  
"Took me a bit to tidy it up, I don't mind telling you."  
  
Neville rubbed his forehead. "Bloody hell, I've only got two  
pages, and I've been working on it since lunch yesterday."  
  
Ron nodded sagely. "Some blokes," he said, poking Harry,  
"get too many leg-ups from certain authorial Powers That  
Be." Ron started to leave, but looked back to Harry with a  
smile. "Mark my words, one of these days the authors that  
contribute to your good fortune will up and leave you, and  
_then_ what will you do?"  
  
"May the day never come. Hey, Ron--" Harry said,  
shouldering his book bag and heading out after his friend,  
"what did you write about this time around?"  
  
"Me? Inferiority complexes again. Strange, eh?"  
  
Gryffindor students flooded the stairs to head down to  
breakfast. There was oddly empty feeling about the  
corridors, though, which Harry couldn't quite pin. Until he  
reached the Great Hall.  
  
Harry hadn't seen this sort of configuration since the old  
Defense Against the Dark Arts professor Gilderoy Lockhart  
tried to start the Dueling Club. There was the huge stage  
where the High Table usually was, and there were the floating  
candles giving light from above. Seats for spectators now  
stretched out where the house tables usually were, and instead  
of friendly faces filling those seats, Harry saw row upon row  
of... not precisely happy students.  
  
"Hiya, kiddos." Professor Jimison stood center stage. She set  
down a microphone stand, and then waved her wand -- a  
bright spotlight shone down on her. "I told you yesterday that  
you'd have to participate in a sort of open-mike session  
today." Her smile turned evil. "This is your mike, and this is  
your audience -- tired, hungry, and ready to mock you cruelly  
if you waste their time. I'll be grading random members of  
class _immediately_ after they finish--" She looked  
thoughtful for a moment. "And maybe I'll throw in some  
comments before they finish too. Everyone will be given  
written commentary in addition to whatever I may say here."  
  
"But Professor," cried out someone who sounded  
suspiciously like Hermione, "how will we _all_ read today?   
I've got a scroll and a half to go through!"  
  
Jimison waved the question away. "I've put the great wizard  
Montoya's _Summarian_ spell on this microphone. It may  
not seem so to all of you, but I've been speaking for about  
two hours now. You'll all have a chance to read _everything_  
you've written."  
  
"My God," Ron muttered into Harry's ear, "she's mad."  
  
"Worse," said Hermione, having just nudged several people  
aside to join her two friends, "she's unstoppable."  
  
Professor Jimison took out a long roll of parchment and  
looked it over. "Since I don't believe in the false sense of  
security brought upon by knowledge of the alphabet, I'll be  
choosing which students will read in what order." She rolled  
up the scroll, set it aflame, and used it to light one of her  
cigarettes, which seemed to have Apparated from some  
undisclosed location straight into her waiting fingertips.   
"And first goes to... Harry Potter."  
  
"She's worse than unstoppable," Harry said in a panicked  
whisper--  
  
"--She's another bloody Defense Against the Dark Arts  
teacher trying to kill me." Harry audibly gulped. He was on  
stage. And that last sentence had wheezed itself out over the  
entire sound system.  
  
"Um," he said. The microphone whined. Harry cleared his  
throat and lifted his manuscript. The audience groaned.   
"Sorry," he muttered. "_The Horrid Pain of the Artiste_, by  
Harry Potter. *In the beginning of the summer months--*"  
  
"Harry?"  
  
Harry broke off. "Um, yes, Professor Jimison?"  
  
"Two things. One: Suck ass title. Find another. Two: Do  
you have any... warnings, maybe? For content?" Jimison  
waggled her eyebrows. "I remember your essay, Flyboy."  
  
Harry searched his brain for any warning that would cover  
everything. He reverted to looking through the author's mind  
as well, and finally settled on, "This story is slash. That  
means there will be relationships of a sexual and/or loving  
nature featuring people of the same gender. So if don't want  
to hear about that, bugger off. Um. So to speak."  
  
Dead silence. No one left. Jimison nodded. "Go for it, kid."  
  
And then off he went. He had some difficulty at first --  
public speaking was so utterly _not_ his thing that, had there  
been a contest for things that _were_ his, public speaking  
would not even be allowed in the vicinity of such award  
winners as, say, his moldy gym socks, his used tissues, or the  
Dursleys.  
  
*The calendar passes through each day without pause for  
reflection...* Harry was really getting into the swing of things  
by then. He didn't go so far as to change voices, or even act  
out much of the action, but he was feeling the power of his  
own words, the way they flowed easily from him once he  
stopped feeling nervous.  
  
The nervousness came back in droves when he saw Malfoy  
sitting in the front row.  
  
*There comes a day in every child's life -- a moment, a  
fragment, a dream -- when they must throw off toys of  
plastic, and take up toys of flesh...* As often as Harry could,  
he looked over at Malfoy, gauging reactions, watching for  
acceptance, rejection, _something_... The rest of the audience  
was listening as well, of course -- had Jimison made any  
more comments during this reading? He couldn't remember -  
- but they didn't really matter. Only one person did. It was  
uncomfortable, it was embarrassing, and, as mentioned a few  
scenes back, it would never work in canon. But Harry  
needed something, and only Malfoy could give it to him.  
  
Harry realized something was... off... with the rest of the  
school somewhere around chapter eleven. *'But why are you  
here?' I whispered. 'Haven't you figured that out yet,  
Johnny?' Tom replied, and closed the door behind him...*  
  
By midway through chapter twelve, there was definitely  
something wrong. *Like nothing else I had yet experienced -  
- like nothing else ever -- like fire, water; pain, surcease;  
love, honesty -- there he was...*  
  
The audience... his friends, his classmates, the best people  
he'd ever known... they weren't happy.  
  
Only five chapters to go, thought Harry. He continued to  
read, and continued to watch Malfoy.  
  
But there was something wrong there as well. Something  
Harry couldn't figure out. So he kept going.  
  
*And I had come to the end of the journey -- the road  
untraveled was blocked by boulders -- or were they  
emotions? Both, because Tom smiled at me, and said we  
were going home.* Harry cleared his throat again. "The  
end."  
  
And _that's_ when the negative criticism started. But it didn't  
come from Jimison.  
  
"Ew! ewewewew," said someone from third row back. "you  
made Harry gay!! That is SO WRONG."  
  
As horrible as that was, Harry felt confused more than  
anything else. Last time he'd checked, his peers had been  
capable of decent punctuation. And while there had been a  
multitude of sex/violence between the characters, that wasn't  
the point of the story. Well, not much anyway. Why did this  
person concentrate their critique on that?  
  
Someone else yelled out, "U R gay UR goig to h-ll."  
  
"Ur?" Harry asked, bewildered. "Who's Ur? What?"  
  
Another: "I relly think you need to get you're priorities  
straight. Get it?? *STRAIGHT*? Figure it out. Oh yeah,  
you are gross and J.K. Rowling is going to sue you I wrote to  
your ISP and reported you that's what you get for beign a  
pervert."  
  
"What the hell does my internet service provider have to do  
with _any_ of this? I don't bloody _have_ an ISP!"  
  
There was one more shout ("Everyone knows its  
HARRYANDHERMIONE4EVER!!!! so don't write this sick  
s--- anymore, it's digusting and wrogn and Draco would never  
do that anyway.") before an overwhelming wall of flaming  
sound surrounded Harry.  
  
It hurt. Hadn't anyone been _listening_ during his content  
warning? And was this what the next generation felt had to  
be said about homosexuality? I mean really, thought Harry,  
if this is what parents are teaching their children today about  
acceptance of all lifestyles, I sincerely fear for the world of  
tomorrow. Can't these people recognize irony? The  
Muggle/Wizard conflicts? Gosh, it's so wrong to pick on  
Muggles just because of the way they are, but it's all right to  
completely bash an entire sexual orientation? Might as well  
bring Voldemort back from the dead and start over -- far as I  
know, he didn't give a fig who I wanted to shag.  
  
But it doesn't matter, Harry thought. None of it matters if  
Malfoy understood what I wrote.  
  
So then Harry looked down. And Malfoy slowly met his  
gaze, and then, just as slowly, he turned away.  
  
Oh.  
  
Harry swallowed, looked around at the angry faces, and ran.  
  
---  
  
Several things happened after Harry left. Foremost of all  
were the two short, angry women who stormed the stage.   
One was Professor Jimison. The other was Mary Sue.  
  
"Quiet!" Jimison yelled into the mike. Her voice amplified  
much louder than the sound system could be blamed for, but  
it didn't seem that magic was powering the sound either --  
pure righteous anger was on her side. "What the _hell_ do  
you think you people are doing?"  
  
Crickets. The dark faces still hadn't lightened up, though.  
  
"Didn't you hear a _word_ of his inner monologue? Idiots!   
Fools! Do you have any _idea_ how difficult it is to write  
something you feel passionately about, and share it with  
equal passion to the uncaring world?"  
  
Mary Sue suddenly jumped in. "Screw that! Even if it  
sucked, so what? It _did_ suck. Harry really needs to let go  
of the metaphors and figure out his pronouns. A helpful hand  
with his action scenes would also not go amiss. Why didn't  
you complain about _that_?" Mary Sue pulled herself up to  
her full height, and her eyes, usually so friendly, so helpful,  
so attentive and trustful, turned ice. "Flame a person for their  
lack of talent. Flame a person in revenge. Flame a person  
because you're bored, and you've got a few minutes before the  
bell rings for third period History. But there is no reason  
_whatsoever_--" and every syllable of that kicked ass and  
took names -- "for you to degrade yourself, your generation,  
and the Harry Potter universe itself by becoming bigoted  
hypocrites."  
  
There was a stunned silence. No one had tried to invoke  
canon in this story as an actual excuse not to do something --  
not until now, anyway. Jimison cracked her first smile in  
hours. "That, and flames are very rarely intelligent,  
humorous, or even very original. Tomorrow we will begin  
work on the subtle science and precise art--"  
  
A faint voice from the back of the hall, where the professors  
stood, said, "Stealing my line!"  
  
"--and _precise art_ of insightful, painful, and deliciously  
addictive critique. But for now..." Jimison raised an  
eyebrow. "I think it's Draco Malfoy's turn for the guillotine."  
  
Mary Sue smiled and bounced offstage. Jimison smiled and  
resumed her seat, likewise offstage. Malfoy just swallowed,  
clutched his papers in one sweaty hand, and made his way to  
the microphone.  
  
----  
  
(cont. in 6/7) 


	6. In which there is sex and violence

----  
  
It was some time later.  
  
It's all gone to hell now, Harry thought, unable to dredge up  
any real emotion to go with the words. He was sitting on the  
floor of Professor Jimison's classroom, his back against one  
of the bookcases, watching the ceiling Inspirations glow like  
lightning bugs in the dark. Perhaps Jimison had a deadline  
to meet, and that caused the flashing -- he couldn't really  
bring himself to care.  
  
His story lay in his lap. Harry felt along it, straightened the  
edges, then straightened them again as the pages slipped out  
of alignment. He felt the corner of the top page -- he  
remembered how carefully he'd handled this sheaf of papers,  
making sure not a tear, not a crease formed. He'd wanted it  
perfect, in case... in case he ended up giving it to someone  
other than the professor.  
  
Perfection.  
  
He could fix that.  
  
The remnants of thirty pages lay heaped in front of Harry,  
and he was midway through the thirty-first when a voice  
said, "It wasn't that bad, Potter."  
  
Harry looked up. Draco Malfoy stood leaning against the  
classroom's doorway, watching as Harry tore his writing  
assignment to shreds. Neither of them spoke, but neither  
turned his eyes away.  
  
Harry sighed, and started on the thirty-second page. "Take a  
seat, Malfoy, unless you've come _just_ to stare at the  
Witless Wonder. In which case you can bloody well shove  
off."  
  
"No, no... I want to talk to the Witless Wonder, too," said  
Malfoy. He walked over to Harry, and sat down a safe meter  
away. "After all, it's not every day that the estimable Harry  
Potter makes an ass of himself in front of the entire school.   
I'm dying to find out why."  
  
"For rank purposes all my own, Malfoy," Harry said. "Have  
a page. Rip it in good health." Harry held out the next sheet  
of paper from his pile.  
  
Malfoy took it, and read the first few lines. "I rather liked  
this scene, actually," he said.  
  
"Which one is it?"  
  
"Where you -- or a character incredibly similar to you --  
declare yourself to male persons unknown."  
  
"Ah," said Harry. "_That_ scene. Can't say the audience  
liked it much. I seem to remember several gasps and at least  
one disgusted shriek."  
  
"Hmm," said Malfoy. Harry looked up, and saw that Malfoy  
was reading the rest of the page. After a moment Malfoy  
said, "I can't help but wonder what sort of reaction you were  
looking for."  
  
You. I was looking at you and you turned away, thought  
Harry. Isn't that reaction enough? "Certainly not the one I  
received," said Harry. Malfoy looked up sharply at that, and  
Harry shrugged and picked up the next sheet of paper.  
  
"Hang on," Malfoy said, and reached out and stopped  
Harry's hand mid-rip.  
  
Harry breath hitched -- when had _breathing_ around  
Malfoy become difficult? -- and tried to talk around the  
metal bands seemingly wrapped around his chest. "What?"  
  
"I... You've got a decent speaking voice, Potter, loathe  
though I am to admit it. I'd be interested to hear this section  
again."  
  
A very stupid request. Malfoy's hand was still against his  
own, still stopping Harry from the act of tearing. "Where  
would you like me to start?" Harry said.   
  
Malfoy made as if to pass his page over, but Harry looked  
where Malfoy's fingers held the page, and knew. "I wish I  
could've told you," Harry said, speaking words he'd read for  
the first time less than a day ago -- but it was a memorable  
passage. "I wish I could've told you years ago, when I  
realized what was happening. I'd watch you enter a room,  
and wait for you to find me before I'd turn away. I've  
wanted to... just touch your hair, feel the blond strands  
between my fingers, see how far I could pull before you  
gave up and bared your throat to me."  
  
Malfoy watched him, didn't interrupt. "I wish I could have  
told you how often I've just wanted to sit and stare, for  
hours, at your eyes, and count those lashes that are too pale  
to see from a distance. I wish I could have told you how  
wonderful your hands look, and how much I've wanted to  
feel them. Anywhere."   
  
Harry slowly withdrew his hand from Malfoy's, and turned  
his head to watch the far-off ceiling. He'd reached the end of  
the dialogue, but there was still something more that had to  
be said. Maybe something better than what the Inspiration  
had given him.   
  
"I never knew if this was something you wanted too. But  
that's no excuse. I should have told you, the moment I knew  
I could. And now... now it's too late, you bastard, because  
it's all gone to hell. You have no idea what even the thought  
of you does to me now. The heavens fall, the rains sweep in,  
and what do I do? I float, because I'm thinking about your  
whiny voice, your ratty hair, your repulsive beliefs and your  
damned ineffective Quidditch maneuvers, and how much I  
_want_ you. Because it's all you, even the rat bastard bits,  
and I want you."  
  
Dead silence from the Malfoy side of the conversation.   
What did I expect? thought Harry, the back cover of a  
bloody romance novel?-- Malfoy said, "Let me see if I can  
remember the next line."  
  
Harry blinked, started to turn his head. "There was no next  
li--"  
  
And the punch came from no where. It hit hard; Harry's  
head knocked against the wall from the force of it.  
  
Malfoy had his fist curled around the sheet of paper Harry'd  
quoted from. "_That_ is for saying all that syrupy rubbish in  
front of the entire school," he said, his voice shaking and  
furious. "And for involving _Mary Sue_, of all people, in  
this debacle. And, while I'm at it, for six years of pure hell  
while I had to watch you being the unbreakable, the  
untouchable, the pitiful Harry Potter, a reluctant-but-brave  
bastard who gets respect like a dog gets fleas, who saves the  
world three times over on a slow day, with a bit of a cold,  
mind you; surrounded by your bloody friends, and your  
bloody memories, and your complete lack of forgiveness for  
the utter idiocy of childhood, I was left to _watch_ all that,  
alone -- because damned if I'd come near you without some  
respect, and damned if you'd come near me without--"   
  
Malfoy's breathing went ragged. Harry couldn't think what  
the last words could be. Without someone shoving me  
closer? Without a professor pairing us up? Without him  
insulting everything I believe in? Maybe there was a good  
reason why Malfoy hadn't finished the sentence. Malfoy  
said then, "It took me six bloody years to figure this out,  
Potter, and you tried to change it overnight with a _writing  
assignment_."  
  
Harry touched his jaw, and winced. "Overnight? Hardly.   
This has been at least three days in the making. But honestly  
meant anyway. Nothing else, Malfoy? That the end of it?"  
Harry said, slowly standing up. "I expect you'll rub this in  
for the rest of the year -- the rest of my life... I've stopped  
caring. It would seem that since you've made your feelings  
on the subject rather clear, the best thing for me to do would  
be to clear off... give you a rest from the harrowing  
experience of being in my company... the sheer torture that  
is me... good God your fist is hard..."  
  
Malfoy stood as well, a bit too fast; he swore as he  
stumbled, and his hand reached out and gripped Harry's  
shoulder for support. "Wait a moment, Potter," he said, and  
then that hand pulled Harry too close, and Malfoy swore  
again and kissed him.  
  
It was fast, a brief press of warm flesh against his own;  
almost meaningless, really, it went so quickly. Malfoy  
pulled back, watched Harry for a moment -- tense, waiting  
for a blow.   
  
None came.   
  
Malfoy leaned forward again, slowly, and this time the  
contact was longer. Harry's lips tingled from the pressure, so  
he opened his mouth, a little, a little... Malfoy inhaled  
sharply, pulled back, asked, "Isn't this the part where you try  
and fend me off?" His eyes darted up to Harry's for a  
moment, then down again, and this time he didn't bother  
with a slow approach, but caught Harry's mouth and there  
was a strange tug, taste, as Malfoy moved his mouth against  
Harry's, and then, then he felt the wet heat of Malfoy's  
tongue, touching... _hell_.   
  
"Call for help?" Malfoy asked hoarsely. Malfoy's grip on his  
shoulder loosened, and his fingertips pulled along the cloth  
of Harry's shirt, up to his jaw, and he lightly caressed the  
bruise forming there. Malfoy kissed him again, and this felt  
different from every other kiss he'd ever had, warmth that  
was Harry's, all Harry's, and he'd never give this up, he  
couldn't, and if Malfoy pulled away _one more time_--  
  
Malfoy stopped, exhaled, made a move to step away, but  
seemed to rethink it -- he instead pushed Harry away, back  
against the wall, but kept one hand on Harry's shoulder. He  
studied Harry's face. "Potter," Malfoy whispered, "isn't this  
the part when you kick me in the bag and make a run for it?"  
  
God, those eyes. Harry reached up and took off his glasses.   
"No," Harry said, "this is the part where you stop talking."   
  
And when Harry kissed Malfoy, neither man pulled away.  
  
----  
  
(cont. in 7/7) 


	7. In which we have a party

----  
  
Again, hours -- and considerable action -- had passed  
between scene breaks.  
  
"Wait a moment," Harry said, "what did you read to the  
class?"  
  
"Me? Haikus. Hundreds of the damn things. And I had to  
follow you, which I don't mind telling you was hell for an  
audience." Malfoy looked meditatively up at the ceiling. "My  
punishment, I suppose, for cheating."  
  
"You touched an Inspiration?"  
  
"Oh, yes. I snuck in during lunch."  
  
"Damn. I snuck in past midnight."  
  
"Crafty bastard. Hadn't thought you had it in you."  
  
"You don't know the half." Harry looked over to Malfoy.   
"You do realize you're going to have to recite some of those  
haikus for me."  
  
Malfoy nodded. "Only fair, I suppose -- the majority of them  
are about you. Which should I start with?"  
  
Harry gave a helpful suggestion. Malfoy took him up on it.  
  
---  
  
"You border on sexual perversity," Malfoy murmured.  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Pull my hair until I bared my throat to you? Have to watch  
those sadistic tendencies, Potter."  
  
"Must be your influence then, because I used to be quite  
sedate in my youth."  
  
"I remember," Malfoy said. "It drove me to distraction on  
more than one occasion."  
  
"Do you suppose our frequent battles were releases of  
homoerotic tension? We've been fighting since we were first  
years."  
  
"Are you suggesting," Malfoy said, striving to look shocked,  
"that we were _eleven_ when we first noticed each other?"  
  
Harry raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Prude."  
  
Malfoy sighed and shook his head. "Deviant."  
  
---  
  
"You know," said Harry, "I'd been told that this author was  
someone to be reckoned with."  
  
"Quite so. Look at the bother we've had so far in this bloody  
thing."  
  
"Granted. However..." Harry did something he'd figured out  
about forty-five minutes ago, and which the author blushed to  
describe.  
  
"Ah. See your point. Quite right. Thank you, dear author."  
  
"Do you think she could be convinced to write another?"  
  
"If not her, I'm certain there are whole writing lists devoted to  
pairings such as us. I wouldn't doubt that there are several  
scenarios floating around that are much better written than  
this."  
  
"I wouldn't doubt it, but..."  
  
"But?"  
  
"But I don't remember _those_. And if you don't mind--"  
  
"Don't see how I could really, when you're doing that--"  
  
"--I would like to remember this particular relationship for  
some time to come."  
  
"In a relationship, are we?"  
  
"So I presumed. Considering your response to--"  
  
"Ah."  
  
"Indeed."  
  
"We sound like salacious characters from a regency romance,  
you do realize that, Potter."  
  
"Blame the author. Our accents have changed dozens of  
times during this piece. And you've completely avoided the  
issue at hand, Malfoy--"  
  
"And one hopes she'll settle for _one_ accent by the sequel.   
It's bad enough I'll be dating Harry Potter from here on out in  
this series -- damned if I'll date someone with a badly written  
Yorkshire accent."  
  
"Dating, are we?"  
  
"Do shut up, Harry." And Malfoy helped Harry with this  
request, for as long as was required.  
  
---  
  
The next morning was an interesting experience. Especially  
since Harry and Malfoy decided to take full license of the  
author's ability to do whatever she damn well pleased, and  
took their breakfast to a peaceable corner near the  
Hufflepuffs instead of sitting at their respective tables. They  
had a good enough time complaining about each other's food  
choices ("Granola. I'm shocked. Shocked and appalled."   
"No more than I, Potter -- Eggs Benedict?" "Ever the patriot,  
I." "Muggle." "Brat."), but the real fun was having people  
watching them actually being friendly ("What did I tell you,  
Harry? You're a kink-magnet. I should inform the house  
elves to keep all rubber goods from you." "Too late."   
"_What?_--").  
  
About halfway through, Hermione and Ron wandered over  
with offerings of food and faint blushes. Hermione spoke  
first. "Harry... are you happy?"  
  
Harry actually thought about it for a moment. And then, just  
to annoy, he kept thinking, until Malfoy jabbed him rather  
hard in the ribs. Laughing, he said, "Yes."  
  
Hermione smiled, then turned to Ron. "Go on," she  
whispered. "You said you would."  
  
Ron screwed up his courage. "So... is this a private party, or  
is the floor reserved for poofs?" Ron asked.  
  
"Free for the taking," Harry said. "And that's the _best_ you  
could do?"  
  
"Sorry," Ron said. "I panicked."  
  
"Damn right, you did," said Hermione. "And you said  
something amazing and very sweet back at the table without  
an ounce of prompting. It was his idea to come over, you  
know," she said proudly. Hermione shook her head sadly and  
sat down beside Malfoy. "Crumpet?"  
  
Malfoy accepted it, then turned to Harry to mutter about the  
absolute shame that all the really _excellent_ jokes about Ron  
and Hermione he could make at this time had already been  
written by much better fanfic authors. Harry nodded  
sympathetically, then began to explain where the Mirror of  
Erised idea had _really_ come from.  
  
A giggly Mary Sue Cutebottom soon came over, trailed by a  
slightly confused Neville. And once it was realized that the  
author was freely breaking all rules for this bit of the story,  
breakfast became a floor party. The professors conveniently  
never noticed, though they did remark on the seemingly poor  
turnout for the morning meal. While a loud and raucous  
party with a good three-fourths of the student body  
participating occurred at foot level, they planned a restorative  
vitamin regimen. It seemed like a good and forward-thinking  
idea.  
  
Meanwhile, squirreled away in her offices, Professor Jimison  
was muttering over an old Macintosh computer, writing up  
her Letters of Comment. The majority of them would be  
exceedingly nasty. Harry's was as well, but then, she'd given  
him a little bit _more_ than half marks, so that was all right.   
And Jimison knew a great secret: One of the other members  
of the staff was friendly with a great many publishers, and,  
given enough... persuasion, could be convinced to send  
Harry's manuscript to an agent.  
  
And then there was the matter of Ron and Hermione --  
Jimison knew the author had to do something about that.   
And what about Neville? What was to become of Mary Sue?   
Would the movie suck? Would Harry and Malfoy actually be  
accepted around school? What happened to Snape in the  
never-to-be-written prequel? Why _did_ Malfoy's parents  
emigrate to Rio? What happened to those scenes the author  
wrote involving the Book of Three Words? And who the  
_hell_ is Hairy Vincenzo the Tireless Vicar?  
  
Jimison smiled. "But that's sequel territory."  
  
----  
  
-The End.  
  
----  
  
  
(Note: At some far flung point in the future, watch for the sequel: _Harry Potter and His Very Small Role in the Plot_. Thanks to everyone who's read and enjoyed, -Bressingham) 


End file.
